


Collecting Dues

by ConvenientAlias



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: Deal with a Devil, Erik is a Stalker, F/M, Kidnapping, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Consensual Kissing, Non-Consensual Touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-11
Updated: 2017-01-11
Packaged: 2018-09-16 18:27:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9284384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConvenientAlias/pseuds/ConvenientAlias
Summary: “Dear Christine,“You may notice I have left your flowers and letters alone this time. There is an open bottle of wine on your desk, though—I would not suggest you drink from it. If you cap it, I will retrieve it in a few days.“Other than that, I have not taken any of your offerings today. However, for the past few months you have been holding back from me in another area, which you know well enough. In that area, I will be collecting my dues tonight. Rest assured, your precious vicomte will be returned to you in good time, well and unharmed. You know I smile upon his courtship of you. I only do not understand why you refuse to share this good fortune.“Your performance tonight was, as usual, spectacular. We shall meet again for practice in four days—you must not grow too arrogant and forget your basics. I hope that you shall continue to make me proud and pleased.“Yours Truly,“Erik.”Or, the one where Christine once made a deal with Erik and Raoul pays the price.





	

Tonight, Christine’s arias had been even more thrilling than usual. Erik, listening from Box Five, had not boomed out any critique or praise during her performance as he might during a lesson—he knew in public she might not appreciate it. But he had listened silently and carefully, and it had brought a deep sense of satisfaction, almost serenity, to his heart. Yes, he had taught her well. And she was a worthy apprentice, a worthy partner. He loved her.

And as he loved her, as he loved her music, he loved the applause. It was wild as always after every song she sang, though she only gave one encore at request. Half of that applause was his by right, no, more than half, and he accepted it, soaked it in. They would never give it to his face nor praise his questionable reputation but tonight they had cheered for him, clapped for him, called for his encore, even if they did not know it.

Still, he committed tonight perhaps a slight offense to the performance. He did not sit through the whole thing. Instead, after Christine’s final major solo, he headed back into the secret passageways, where he could only hear the final couple numbers very muffled, and of course could not appreciate the spectacle of the curtain call. But he had plans of tonight, and they required perfect timing. Luckily Erik, backstage magician that he was, knew everything about timing.

He headed to the passage that led to one of his favorite openings, the mirror in Christine’s room. Ever since she had started using this room, it had received more use than ever before, perhaps more than such an obvious and melodramatic opening deserved. He would drop in on her every other night, or sometimes leave notes when she was out. And when he returned her to her room after a lesson in his lair, this tended to be her preferred exit.

Tonight he was not there to see Christine.

He was there because the Vicomte de Chagny had acquired a persistent (and slightly, if the Phantom had to admit it, endearing) habit of going to Christine’s room as soon as her performances were over and waiting for her to show up, not even bothering to wade through the crowd. He would get there before Christine herself. It always made Christine happy. If she was already euphoric after a performance, she would fling herself into the vicomte’s arms, accept his naïve praise (he knew nothing about opera but loved her voice, as he ought) and babble on about the vagaries of the night while he helped her comb out tangles in her hair and sort through fan mail. If she was weary, a smile would still appear on her lips, which he would gently kiss. He would ask if he should leave and she would say no, he was the best thing to happen to her all night. Erik had watched both of these routines time and time again. Christine and Raoul (yes, he dared to call the vicomte Raoul) were a good couple. Raoul was certainly very good for Christine.

And he was very, very good looking.

Erik had spotted the young vicomte in one of the higher boxes tonight, sitting with his brother the comte, eyes absolutely fixed on the stage, hardly aware of his other surroundings. So he was in attendance tonight—and he would be in attendance in Christine’s room by now.

Erik arrived at the mirror. Looking through, he saw that what he had expected was true. Raoul was sitting in one of Christine’s chairs, facing the door. Waiting for his lover to show up.

Christine would take a while. Erik smiled slightly. He would have to do to entertain the vicomte until then. Quietly, he stepped out of the mirror. It opened silently—he greased the works regularly, since it was in regular use. Raoul didn’t seem to notice anything.

Erik placed a hand on his shoulder.

Raoul jumped a little in his seat, though he didn’t make a noise. Then he turned his head, and slightly jumped again.

Erik raised his uncovered eyebrow mockingly.

Raoul said, “You are the opera ghost.”

Erik smiled at that. His reputation around the theater was growing, it seemed. Not due to Christine, who only ever mentioned him as an anonymous tutor, unwilling to admit to such an intimate relationship with a demanding and unreasonable phantasm, assumed by some to not even be human. But his letters to the new managers had met with some outrage, a miniature inquisition, even though he really hadn’t demanded all that much. And of course the ballet girls were always talking about him lately. He found this kind of gossip more flattering than if it had actually been complimentary.

“Indeed, Monsieur Vicomte,” he said now. “I am the opera ghost. But my friends call me Erik, and if you wish you may do so as well.”

Raoul, while Erik was speaking, had slowly gotten to his feet and backed up a couple paces. It wasn’t fear, just proper caution, a desire not to be at a position of disadvantage. In Erik’s presence, it was only prudent.

“What are you doing in Miss Daae’s dressing room?” he said.

He always called her “Miss Daae” in front of strangers. A sign of respect, or perhaps a feigning that their relationship was only that of a diva and her admirer. Once again, proper. Erik followed suit. “Miss Daae and I know each other well,” he said. “Perhaps you have heard her speak of her tutor?”

Raoul’s eyes widened. A strange reaction, as if nothing had really surprised him about this chance meeting until now. Erik liked having surprised him. “You are her tutor?”

“I am.”

“She calls you an angel.” His voice now was questioning, whereas before, in actually questioning, it had only made demands. He was softening. Erik smiled as reassuringly as a man in a mask could.

“She likes to tell stories,” he said. “But I assure you I am human, monsieur.” Though it might be more accurate to call him a phantasm or a devil, but not an angel. That was Christine’s pure fancy, and he allowed it to her. It made her feel angelic herself. Innocent. “Please, I would explain our relationship to you if you would allow. As well as other things. Will you sit down again? I fear I have made you tense.”

Slowly, Raoul, turned the chair around to face Erik and sat down. His body was still as stiff as ever, but he smiled. “Forgive me, monsieur. It is not every day you meet a ghost. I will hear anything you have to say.” He glanced at the door all the same. Wanting Christine to come, to explain this herself. Or perhaps wanting her to come for no particular reason. Erik knew very well what it was to crave someone’s simple presence, the smell of her perfume, the folding of her arms around you. And Raoul certainly showed all the signs.

But Christine would be with her fans for some time longer, and they both knew it.

“Will you drink with me as we talk?” Erik said. He picked up a bottle from the gifts sent by fans. “Christine won’t mind—she shares all things with me—and I would be cordial with you.”

He knew where she kept a couple wine glasses—only two, she only ever liked to share with Raoul, not even with Erik anymore.

Raoul’s eyes flickered suspiciously on the wine as Erik poured it into the two glasses. What probably decided him in the end was the fact that it was among the things sent by guests—flowers, letters and other favors—and had been there since before Erik arrived. Of course, he had no way of knowing that Erik had placed the wine there beforehand specifically for such an occasion, only a couple hours ago. Of course, the fact that Erik was drinking with him was probably a factor as well.

Erik handed him one glass and took the other. “Cheers,” he said. They both raised their glasses to their lips.

Raoul drank, though only a sip. Erik swirled the wine around in his mouth, then, when Raoul inevitably took a long glance back at the door again (a predictable boy) spit it back into the glass and poured a little wine onto the floor to make up for the added volume. It wasn’t really civil, of course, to spit out your wine, but it was better than allowing yourself to get drugged.

(Obviously the wine was drugged.)

When Raoul looked back, he was clearly embarrassed, seeing only now that Erik’s eyes had not left him while he had gazed upon the door. “I’m sorry. I’m expecting Christine.”

Erik smiled. “In her dressing room, I would expect no less.”

Flushing, Raoul took another gulp of wine to avoid meeting Erik’s gaze. He’d lost his suspicions, then, and was far too easily self conscious. It was a flaw common in youth, though less so in nobles, and rather amusing.

Erik continued, “You’ve been here practically every night, after all. I would think by now you would know when to expect her. You’ve become knowledgeable in her habits, her preferences. An expert no doubt in how to approach her, act around her, please her…” He allowed his voice to drop low with insinuation.

“What do you mean to imply?” Raoul said. His tone was almost even but his consonants were a little slurred.

“I mean no offense, monsieur.” He most definitely meant offense, and seeing it swell on Raoul’s face was gratifying. The first real reaction he’d managed to pull from this boy, albeit probably on Christine’s behalf.

“Christine and I have done nothing untoward.”

“Trust me,” Erik said. “I have seen everything you’ve done.” He gestured towards the mirror. “Those nights after the show when she greets you with more jubilance than you expected, and suddenly to hold you in her arms is not enough…”

“You…” Raoul got to his feet. “You’ve been…” He stepped forward uncertainly, probably intending to either seize Erik’s collar or punch him in the face. But the drugs in the wine were acting quickly on him (a lightweight, especially for a nobleman) and when he reached Erik, he swayed, barely focused. His hand took hold of Erik’s shirt at the lapel, but didn’t seem to know what to do with it. His eyes were drifting, confused, unsure…

“I hope you’re not offended on Christine’s behalf,” Erik said. “You may not have known I was watching, but she always assumes it. Anything I saw, she wanted me to see.” He stepped closer to catch Raoul as he stumbled and collapsed in Erik’s arms. “You don’t have to be embarrassed,” he added softly, though it was clear the young vicomte was no longer listening. “You might not have been aware of it, but you put on quite a show.”

And in the Opera Populaire, what more could one ask for than that?

///…///…///

Once upon a time, a girl was left all alone in the world. Her father had promised to send her the angel of music, but the angel of music never came. And so she had no one and nothing, and became a common ballet girl. But she dreamed of much more.

One night there came to this girl, not an angel, but a demon. She knew he was a demon by his ugliness and his lack of morals, for all know that angels are beautiful and good. But his voice was smooth and sweet and lovely, all she had ever wished her voice could be.

“Demon,” she said. “Teach me how to sing as beautifully as you, that I can become famous instead of staying as lowly as I am.”

“You are indeed very lowly,” the demon said. “What can you give me, if I teach you how to sing?”

The girl blushed, for she had little to offer. “But,” she said. “I will give you all I have.”

This was indeed so little the demon could not accept. But he was merciful (or perhaps simply very clever) and said to her, “Very well. This will be our bargain. I will teach you to sing, and how to find fame. But whatever you get as a result, be it acclaim or money or happiness, you must give me of it a portion. I will take no more from it than is fair, but it will be my lot.”

The girl agreed, for it was only fair. And so the demon taught the girl how to sing.

///…///…///

Within a couple minutes, Erik was left with a very unconscious vicomte in his arms. A fast acting drug. Of course, it would only keep him sleeping for a couple hours at most, but that was more than Erik needed. Cradling Raoul’s body with one arm, still mostly upright (he was not as heavy as he could be—far too thin for a member of the Navy) he used the other arm to deposit a note for Christine on her dresser. With that, he hoisted Raoul over his shoulder (not a very dignified pose but more efficient than carrying him like a bride by far), opened up the mirror, and headed out.

The note he left read as follows,

“Dear Christine,

“You may notice I have left your flowers and letters alone this time. There is an open bottle of wine on your desk, though—I would not suggest you drink from it. If you cap it, I will retrieve it in a few days.

“Other than that, I have not taken any of your offerings today. However, for the past few months you have been holding back from me in another area, which you know well enough. In that area, I will be collecting my dues tonight. Rest assured, your precious vicomte will be returned to you in good time, well and unharmed. You know I smile upon his courtship of you. I only do not understand why you refuse to share this good fortune.

“Your performance tonight was, as usual, spectacular. We shall meet again for practice in four days—you must not grow too arrogant and forget your basics. I hope that you shall continue to make me proud and pleased.

“Yours Truly,

“Erik.”

He signed his notes to her with his real name, though to other members of the Opera Populaire it was always OG this and OG that. He had to cultivate a certain reputation. But reputation was not needed between him and Christine. She knew exactly who he was and what he was capable of. Oh yes.

It would have been a long walk back to his lair with Raoul in his arms. Fortunately, he was able to make his way to an underground canal within around ten minutes, and from there they could take a gondola.

It was a route he had taken Christine on time and time again, on those nights when he wanted to please and excite her. The tunnels stank, certainly—though less in those Erik usually used than you would expect, as he tried to keep them reasonably clean for use—but once you accustomed yourself to the background smell, the darkness and the claustrophobia, there was something romantic about them, about riding a gondola through a half-lit world of reflective water and echoing walls.

This was the first time Raoul had ever crossed into this realm. Erik deposited him gently in the corner of the gondola, curled up in a ball. If he stayed like that for too long he would have all sorts of aches later on, but from here Erik could navigate his way fairly quickly. His neck in particular would no doubt be sore—despite Erik’s best efforts, his head lolled off to the side at an angle.

It was a pity Raoul couldn’t be awake to appreciate the ride, though it might not have entranced him as much as the impressionable Christine. Unfortunately Erik did not trust the vicomte to cooperate with Erik’s plans in the slightest. Besides, it had been fairly obvious that Raoul did not trust him. So it was all much more efficient this way.

Besides, Raoul might not be able to appreciate the scenery this way, but Erik could appreciate different sights.

Unconscious, Raoul was relaxed. It was not the kind of relaxation Erik had seen him show around Christine, the casual trust and surrender he showed when she peeled his coat and vest and even overshirt off him to offer him an unskilled but thorough back massage, the sweet tranquility of the way he and Christine embraced and conversed, unhindered by secrets or boundaries. That kind of peace and surrender could not be evoked with chemicals. Still, it was relaxation of a sort. It was intriguing to see the face of a vicomte with all its facial muscles let go, the way the lips hung slightly open but expressionless, the rubberness of his cheeks, still slightly red—this drug caused a flush, brought heat and intoxication before and after its main effect, this artificial sleep. Erik mostly had to focus on rowing, but he looked down now and again. That face with all its strings cut, and the rest of his body curled up like a cat sitting in a sheltered corner, his dress suit now getting a little bit wrinkled. Erik reached out a hand to smooth out some of the rumpled portion on Raoul’s shoulder but stopped when he realized he would probably end up moving Raou’s too-limp shoulder in the process.

He really needed to focus on steering.

They reached the shore in due time, and his lair as well. Lair…Christine called it that, but he had never objected to the title. It was far more accurate than “home”, for no matter how much he decorated, how many paintings of Christine he put up (or of other subjects, for that matter), or how many hours he spent here composing or eating or sleeping or living, it never felt like a home should, warm and safe. It only felt secure, solid. His stronghold, he thought, but lair suited as well. It was a place where he knew he and only he was in control.

Stepping onto the shore, he heaved Raoul out, as immobile as a sack of potatoes, not even whimpering at the sudden motion. He carried Raoul over to the bed and laid him down there, as gently as possible, arranging him prone on the red comforter. Usually this was where Erik slept. Sometimes, when practice ran too late or Erik demanded multiple days at once, Christine had slept there—and of course Erik had always been very considerate about her privacy. It was a canopy bed and it was simple enough to draw the drapes closed and let her sleep in peace. And no matter how tempting, he had never peeked through those drapes in the night. To that part of her, he had no right.

But he did have a right to that part of the vicomte. He knew well enough that Christine had seen Raoul sleeping before, though it had generally been when he had fallen asleep in Christine’s quarters by accident and only for brief periods of time. For the Vicomte de Chagny to stay overnight with a diva would have caused scandal, and though no one cares about a nobleman’s scandal in Paris, it would have dirtied Christine’s name, which both she and Raoul valued.

Nevertheless, because of Erik’s tutoring, she had been given the chance to see this boy so vulnerable. It was only just that Erik should take this opportunity to do so as well.

Raoul, stretched out, looked much bigger than curled up, though he was still shorter than Erik. His hair had gotten messy by now, part of which was probably splashing on the gondola—there were a couple damp spots on his shirt and pants. His coat looked uncomfortable and oddly formal in bed. Erik carefully lifted him up and worked his arms slowly out of their sleeves, careful not to bend them at any awkward angle or rip the coat’s seams. Then he lowered Raoul back down, folded the coat, and put it in a drawer with his own clothes, which were rather different, both in size and fashion. Raoul had stylistic flair but his clothes were very of-the-moment and not as dramatic as Erik’s. They were lacking there…still, Erik supposed they suited him. Now he was in just his rumpled white shirt, beneath which an angular collarbone just barely protruded. Erik undid a couple buttons to help him breathe easier.

Well. His motives might not have been entirely that pure.

He went no further than that, though, and when the temptation grew too great, he headed over his organ to run through his latest piece. It was for the opera he was composing, that he expected to be presented with Christine leading by the end of next season. Plans were in the works already…though of course they still needed a good deal of perfecting.

He paused every couple minutes though, careful not to be absorbed by his work as was his wont. And at one pause he heard what the tones of his organ had been covering up for a few minutes, the shifting of a body on his bed. He approached it again and opened the canopy. Raoul’s eyes were slowly blinking open.

“What…wha…” He seemed confused, and whimpered at the light admitted when the canopy was opened, although the light in Erik’s lair, being all candles, was hardly blinding.

Erik let the drapes fall closed again, this time with himself on the inside though. He sat next to the vicomte on the bedside and placed a hand on his forehead. Hot, but within acceptable bounds, not dangerously feverish though probably not pleasant. He would feel better within two hours, two hours Erik would not waste. But he would give Raoul a minute to adjust. He squeezed Raoul’s shoulder with one hand and said, “Good evening, Monsieur Vicomte. Do you remember our earlier conversation?”

Raoul only groaned.

“Do you remember me?”

He did not respond. Still too disoriented. Erik rose and brought him a glass of water, helped him to swallow a few sips. Then, again, “Do you remember me?”

“Ghost,” Raoul croaked.

Better. Still not the name he wanted to hear from those lips. “I told you to call me something else. Do you remember?”

Raoul squinted, maybe with concentration, maybe with pain—probably still had a killer headache. “Erik,” he finally said. “You’re Erik.”

Erik smiled. “That’s right.”

“Why have you brought me here?” he asked, not even accusatory, just still so utterly confused.

Erik crossed his legs, making himself comfortable. “Let me tell you a story.”

///…///…///

The demon taught the girl how to sing, and he did it well. So well that soon she became famous and had many admirers for her voice, and so his investment paid off handsomely.

Of all she received for her voice, she in turn gave him a portion as he desired. In her fame he knew he was famous, and those who gave her adulation, he knew really addressed half such adulation to him, her tutor. And so he was not jealous in such matters.

In material matters, he was more demanding. When patrons gave her gifts of flowers, jewelry, trinkets, he would extract a certain amount of all she received—usually not more than a third, though in truth he deserved at least half. And so the cave where he dwelled was filled with beautiful things, flooded with the scent of sweet red roses. And when she received food or wine, they would eat and drink together, celebrating the girl’s outrageous success.

He did not need money. He had ways of getting by. But when the patrons got overly generous, she always did give him half of the proceeds, and he did not protest.

The time came, however, when the girl received something for her pains that was neither as immaterial as fame nor as material as a flower. And this was the attention of a certain patron, a different patron, a more attentive patron than any of the others. This patron was a nobleman, a vicomte of a wealthy family. But what he offered her was not flowers or jewels or even influence to open doors for her. What he offered her, quite simply, was his love.

And the girl, flattered by his attentions, accepted it.

///…///…///

“So in this story you choose to cast yourself as the demon,” Raoul said.

As Erik had spoken, his voice enthralling but not lulling, he had been gaining more coherence. He was still lying on the bed, having tried and failed to sit up a couple times (the drug left you very, very weak), but apparently his mind had mostly cleared by now. This was good.

“It’s an odd choice,” Raoul said. “Even the opera house only calls you a ghost. We are kinder to you. Why demonize yourself?”

Erik shrugged. “An angel must behave himself, and be good. A ghost is nothing. But a demon may possess his lover’s soul, and may still get a decent amount out of the bargain.”

Raoul laughed weakly. “You are not Christine’s lover.”

“No?” Erik casually placed his hand on Raoul’s chest, pinning him against the mattress. A reminder—it wasn’t like Raoul could have gotten up at this point anyway. “And yet I own her far more surely than you do, young vicomte.”

“Love is nothing to do with ownership,” Raoul said. He didn’t seem all that intimidated.

Erik studied his face for a long moment, the set jaw, the noble eyes. Defiant eyes, really, even though he hadn’t yet realized just what reason he had to be defiant. “Then I think I will choose ownership, and eschew love.”

He shifted on the bed, his hand still pinning Raoul down. Now he was thoroughly facing Raoul. With his other hand he stroked Raoul’s arm, lightly feeling the wrinkled cloth and smoothing it out. “You interrupted me. The story wasn’t finished.”

“I didn’t like it very much.”

“That’s rude,” Erik said. “Considering you’re my guest here. I’m afraid you’ll have to let me speak.” He waited to see if Raoul would interrupt again before continuing. “The girl took this nobleman as her lover, and he gave her many things. But she had forgotten her deal with the demon, and in these new favors she did not give the demon equal share.” He leaned down and lifted Raoul’s head slightly to murmur in his ear, husky but quiet. “The demon was forgiving. He did not punish her for this foolishness. He merely came to collect what was his.”

Raoul made a protesting noise and tried to move away, but Erik only brought his other hand around to steady Raoul’s head. Gently, he kissed Raoul on the side of his forehead.

“What are you doing?” Raoul said in a carefully steady voice.

“So you have not allowed Christine to do that to you?” Erik said. He raised an eyebrow. “Please remember I have been watching you, Monsieur Vicomte. I know everything you two have done together.” He kissed Raoul’s cheek now, sending a shudder through his body. “Please do not lie to me.”

“I am not trying to lie,” Raoul said, his voice shaking slightly now when Erik’s next kiss landed on the juncture where his chin met his neck. “Only I do not see why you would want this from me, or from Christine if that is how you see it. You call Christine yours, but I should have no attraction to you.”

Erik only laughed. If Raoul hadn’t figured out by now that he was attractive by anyone’s standards, it was hardly a lesson to be taught by a ghost. He kissed Raoul’s neck a little further down instead, and let that be his answer.

Raoul was shivering now, though to be fair a large part of that might have been the effects of the drug. He reached over and pushed Erik’s head away, and Erik politely let him have his say, for now. “Fine. But I would argue that what love or…favors…I have given Christine have nothing to do with your musical tutoring.”

“No?” Erik said. “Make your argument, then.”

“I knew Christine long ago, and was already in love with her then. When I found her by chance, I was already in love with her, and it was for this love that I did…” he paused. “Anything that I did.”

“You never would have found her again without her singing so well it drew your attention,” Erik said. “I grow weary of your excuses, monsieur.”

Raoul half opened his mouth to give some other argument, and Erik, taking hold of his head again though this time by the chin, kissed him firmly on the mouth to shut him up. It didn’t totally work—Raoul continued to grunt through most of the kiss, and his hands vaguely pushed against Erik’s chest—but Erik didn’t allow any of that to distract him. It was his and Raoul’s first real kiss, after all, even if Raoul clearly wasn’t appreciating it. He hadn’t been privy to Raoul and Christine’s first kiss; the first time he’d seen them kissing they’d melted into it as if it were something they already did all the time, which had been somewhat shocking to him. But he had considered time and again what it would be like to kiss the vicomte, and this…

Well, it was and it wasn’t like he imagined. Raoul’s lips were as soft and tender as he had imagined (the man had to use some sort of balm to make them always look so good), his skin smooth and freshly shaved. Of course, it would have been nice if Raoul were cooperating and kissing back instead of trying to pull away, but things were never quite how you wanted them to be. Erik licked his way Raoul’s mouth as gently as he could, turning at least one of those grunts of protest into a moan. After a minute, he leaned back to draw a breath.

Raoul was gasping too. He gave Erik a wild look, finally fully lucid if still weak. Finally seeming to comprehend Erik was real.

“You taste good, but you’re too tense,” Erik said. “Do you want to give it another try?”

He was already kissing Raoul again before Raoul could answer. With one hand he held Raoul’s chin steady while with the other hand he felt on Raoul’s chest for his shirt buttons. Difficult to undo them with only one hand…He released Raoul’s head and leaned back to work with both.

Raoul pushed at his hands, snatching at the cloth of his shirt, trying to pull the two sides back together. Erik sighed.

“You’re far too nervous, Monsieur Vicomte,” he said. “I’m only going to do to you what Christine already has. Has she deflowered you?”

Raoul flushed bright red. “No!”

“Then what on Earth are you worried about?”

“The things I do with Christine are intimate and between us,” Raoul said. He levered himself up on his elbows and began to back away, until his shoulders hit the bed frame and he had to stop. “You say a lot of things but you are a stranger and you are…” Erik reached for his buttons and Raoul batted away his hands again. “I do not accept your advances, monsieur. Whatever deal you have…”

“I do not need you to accept.” Erik moved closer on the bed to sit neatly on Raoul’s hips. “I only need you to stop moving. Please.” He pushed Raoul’s shoulders against the bed frame, hard. “This can be easy or it can be difficult. I would rather…”

Raoul head butted him.

The head butt did not have as much force as it might have, if Raoul weren’t drugged and in no condition for a fight. Still, it wasn’t pleasant to have someone’s skull hit your forehead. Erik retaliated instantly, slamming Raoul’s head against the wood of the bed frame. Twice. Crack, crack.

Raoul yelped and squirmed. Erik leaned forward and, pushing Raoul’s head back by the chin, sucked at his vulnerable throat. He didn’t quite bite (the boy deserved it but it wasn’t Erik’s style) but he was sure the vicomte would have bruises in a couple different places tomorrow, and this one at least would be visible. He was also sure, due to his position on Raoul’s hips, that Raoul was enjoying it a bit more than he would have liked.

“Stop,” Raoul gasped. “Stop…you…”

He wasn’t pushing so desperately against Erik’s chest anymore, his hands clenching vacantly at the sheets instead, wrinkling and unwrinkling, wrinkling and unwrinkling. Erik took the opportunity to undo one button. No reaction. Another button, then another and another. There was only one button left. Erik kissed Raoul on the sternum and unbuttoned it, spreading the shirt open.

He sat back. “Take it off.”

Raoul’s eyes were bleary, unfocused. “What?”

“I want your shirt off. Strip.”

Wrinkle, unwrinkle. Wrinkle, unwrinkle. He made no move to close his shirt, though. “No.”

Erik reached forward and pull the shirt off one shoulder, then the other. He tugged it down Raoul’s arms until it was only hanging loosely, a useless shrug. “Take it off.” Raoul didn’t move. Erik rolled his eyes and maneuvered Raoul’s arms out of the shirt like a doll’s.

He paused to appreciate the sight of the vicomte shirtless. Not like he’d never seen it before, but never so close, never when he could reach out and touch and lick and devour. He touched one of Raoul’s nipples, fingering it gently until it hardened. He laughed when Raoul’s hand finally came up again to grab his wrist. “Fall asleep for a moment there?”

“That’s not something Christine does,” Raoul said.

“Hm?”

“That’s not something Christine does. You said you would be fair—”

Erik slapped him. Not hard, just a gentle smack on the cheek, with enough force to smart and make a lot of noise. When Raoul’s eyes widened, he smiled. “Don’t look so offended. I’ve seen Christine do that before.” She had occasionally slapped Raoul when he said something too forward or rude, just playing around, and he knew by what usually followed that coming from her, Raoul enjoyed it.

“But you’re right,” he continued. “She doesn’t usually twist your nipples. Doesn’t even suck them, though I bet you’d enjoy that.” His voice purred now, and Raoul cringed back. “She does touch, though. Is that…fair?” He put his hands both flat on Raoul’s midsection, all hard muscle, warm and smooth. Stroked, gently, not going below the belt or above the sternum. Good for a start. “Come now, monsieur. You must judge for me.”

Raoul’s voice was slurred and bitter. “Fine.”

Erik rewarded him with a gentle kiss to his collarbone, where he sucked for a good long minute. His focus was cut by what sounded like Raoul choking, maybe even crying. But when he looked up, concerned by the way his body shook, Raoul was only laughing.

“I’m sorry you find my ministrations funny,” Erik said. “I’m afraid I have little practice.”

“Don’t pretend you care,” Raoul said, out of breath. “About making this good for me, about fairness, about any of it. You don’t…” He coughed. Maybe the dampness of the lair was getting to him—it could take some getting used to.

“But I do, monsieur,” Erik said. He stroked smoothing circles on Raoul’s stomach. “All I want is an equal share in what I was promised. Tell me, then, how that is wrong.”

He liked kissing and touching Raoul a lot, but listening to his outrage was also fun. The vicomte had a decent voice (though not one especially gifted in singing) and a decent intellect. Indeed, there were many reasons to find him desirable, even though without the deal with Christine Erik would have no excuse to act on them.

“You’re nothing like Christine,” Raoul said.

“No? I think with our voices, we are like souls intertwined.”

“You don’t…act like her, touch like her…” Raoul pinned Erik’s hand on his stomach, making him stop. “There is no love in your kisses. You only seek to satisfy yourself.”

“No love?” Christine had accused Erik of being short of sentiment before too. It was frustrating. “Tell me, then, how I fall short of love. I will prove to you otherwise. I can love you far better than any diva.”

Raoul smiled wryly. “There can be no affection between two people when one of them is wearing a mask.”

Erik froze.

Then, grimly, he smiled back. “I see Christine has been speaking to you about me after all.”

Raoul said, “No, monsieur.”

“No? Well, I’m afraid you would not like it very much if I took my mask off.”

“People who love do not wear masks,” Raoul said stubbornly. “The simplest act of affection, kissing someone on the cheek, becomes impossible.”

“Indeed,” Erik said thoughtfully. He had often seen Raoul greet Christine by kissing her twice, once on each cheek. “Well then, I will take my mask off, shall I? And if you do not prefer it as you thought, I will put it back on.”

And before he could talk himself out of it, he took the half mask off and tossed it lightly to the foot of the bed.

He turned back to Raoul. Raoul was silent, but his eyes on Erik’s face were analytical.

“What do you think, monsieur?” Erik said. The air on his face felt unnatural. He wore his mask always, even to bed. “Do you prefer to be caressed by a monster?”

Raoul said, “The rumors about you are exaggerated.” He closed his eyes. “I still prefer not to be caressed.” His tongue dripped sarcasm on the last word.

“Not afraid of me, then?” Erik said. He smiled mockingly and did as Christine often did in return, kissed Raoul once on each cheek.

He wasn’t sure what reaction he expected. Raoul sat as still as before, hardly reacting. He seemed to have zoned out again.

It occurred to Erik that he had never kissed anyone before with his mask off. He kissed Raoul’s cheek again, trying to understand how he felt about it. The motion brought Raoul’s smooth skin against Erik’s skin, vulnerable and rough. It was somehow more intimate than anything they had done earlier, although again Raoul seemed to hardly be present.

Raoul had been right. It hit Erik with the bitter sting of something you already know—of course Erik knew nothing about love.

Half angry, he got off the bed, leaving the drapes closed. He went over to his organ and began work again on his opera.

///…///…///

They spoke to each other no more that night, even when Erik eventually roused himself and brought Raoul back to Christine’s dressing room. Raoul followed him then in wary silence, having regained his strength from the drug. Only when he saw Christine, who had been waiting in the dressing room late into the night, full of concern for her lover, did he finally cry out in joy and relief, throwing himself into her arms as easily as if the past several hours had been nothing more than a nightmare after watching a too-dramatic opera.

Erik faded back into the mirror like a shadow. He did not watch their reunion, having no intention to listen to Christine’s couched explanations, having no desire to see how much the vicomte would be willing to divulge. He told himself this, that he did not want to hear how Raoul would explain what had happened. In truth, he couldn’t help but wonder.

But he did not speak to Raoul again, not that night nor any night for the next month. Christine, in their regular meetings, did not bring up the incident, though he could tell she was not happy with him. Then again, when was she ever?

They did not mention Raoul again, until one night a month later when she showed up to a singing lesson in her room without a ring on. It wouldn’t have been exceptional except Erik knew that Raoul had given her a ring, a very particular ring, only the night before.

“Did you hide it in your costume drawer?” he asked her.

She paled. “What are you talking about?”

“The ring Raoul gave you. He will be sad you are not wearing it. Why keep your engagement secret?”

“He is the Vicomte de Chagny to you,” she hissed. Taking affront at his choice of names, of all things.

“What, after we’ve come to know each other so well?”

“Why did you do it?” she asked, and he could tell she’d been burning to ask him all month, ever since that night. He chuckled.

“He is a very attractive man, and well born, and of good character. I gave a man of all these qualities to you, and you had such relations with him, and you never thought to give me my portion,” Erik said. He shook his head. “Did you think I would demand nothing from you?”

Christine said, “No. I thought you would ask for your payment from me.” Her hand went to her lips briefly, but she quickly thrust it down to her side. “Why didn’t you?”

“You gained the vicomte,” Erik said easily. “It was fair I should have a chance at him as well.” He brought a hand to her cheek, cupped it tenderly. “Are you offended, Christine?”

She stepped back, away from him. “You were wrong to do it. Raoul is innocent. You must leave him alone.”

Erik only laughed.

Christine bit her lip. “Please.” Her voice lowered. “If you will only leave him alone, I will give you anything you may require.”

Erik had to hand it to her; she knew how to speak seductively. He had trained her to be not only a singer, but an actress. He looked at her coy smile impassively, at the way she ran a hand down her torso before widening her lips just a touch more.

“Please,” he said. “We must be professional. We have a bargain, nothing more.” He shook his head. “Besides, anything of that nature, I can soon get from your Raoul. I assume you are planning on enjoying your wedding night?”

Christine flushed.

Erik smirked. “I hope you do. Tell him I will see him again when he is a married man, and at that time I will show him how much I know of love.”

**Author's Note:**

> So...I've shipped Erik/Raoul for a while, but only in the worst way possible. The lack of "Erik being a creep to Raoul" fics makes me kind of sad...So I wrote one.  
> (I don't usually write kink so I hope it's decent.)  
> Comments and kudos would be much appreciated! Or find me on tumblr at convenientalias.tumblr.com


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